


one bright and guiding light

by queenjameskirk



Category: Bad Times at the El Royale (2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant Violent Imagery, Gen, Minor Character Death, drug use/mention, you know what this poor baby character needs more of? pain!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 05:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16469948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenjameskirk/pseuds/queenjameskirk
Summary: Miles can’t remember what his life was like before the war.





	one bright and guiding light

**Author's Note:**

> look, you can't have a character be religious, a drug addict, AND have him cry for an entire 90 minutes and not expect me to immediately fall in love with him. 
> 
> un-beta'd (cause i have literally zero friends who have seen the movie lmao) so any mistakes you find are my own! 
> 
> thanks for reading!

_just like a wandering sparrow,_  
_one lonely soul._  
_i walked the straight and narrow,_  
_to reach my goal._  
_god's gift sent from above,_  
_a real unselfish love,  
i found in my mother's eyes._

 

Home is different when Miles gets back, and he knows the only person he has to blame is himself.

 

His ma runs her fingers through his hair, cut close to his head and sticky with heat. Summer in Indiana is mild in comparison to most but the walk from the bus stop home has made him break out in a sweat regardless, his duffel bag strap digging into his shoulder and the collar of his shirt dampening.

 

Miles tries to close his eyes and lean into his mother’s touch the way he used to when he was a boy but closing his eyes always leads to memories of things he’d rather forget. Today it’s a flash of blood and blue sky and mud and his shoulders stiffen reflexively, raising to his ears as his ma tries to find a curl to wrap around her finger. He panics, trying to remember quickly where he is and how he’s safe and he takes slow breaths in through his nose, shallow so ma doesn’t notice. The tension doesn’t bleed out of him easily but Miles wills it away nonetheless, not wanting to let his mother see him so wound tight.

 

He opens his eyes, blinking away the flashes of red and blue, and his ma is smiling at him, head tilted to the side as she asks him if he’s hungry for dinner. Her smile is wide and warm and familiar but Miles still sees the pain in her eyes.

 

He knows intimately what pain looks like, what fear and desperation and sorrow mix together to become. He held the hands of friends and brothers while they died in the mud, bleeding and pleading and their eyes full of that shining pain. Miles wonders what the pain feels like on the inside, if it’s as clawing and white hot as it looks.

 

He’s been empty for a while now, so devoid of feeling anything but regret and guilt that he thinks he might enjoy feeling an ounce of that pain if only for the sensation of feeling anything at all.

 

The military psychiatrist told him information about shell shock when they’d checked him out, sitting in a tent at the base while they loaded the planes up with boys set to go back home to the States. He mentioned that Miles could have something called post traumatic stress disorder; that it might manifest in different ways for him than it does for others. He’d warned Miles to take it slowly, to integrate himself back into his old life bit by bit.

 

Miles can’t remember what his life was like before the war.

 

“Miles?” His ma asks quietly, searching his face. He forces his eyes to focus back on her, to answer her question about dinner, but the words don’t come. “Are you okay baby?”

 

He nods, not trusting his voice, and his mama purses her lips. Her forehead is wrinkled and the crows feet around her eyes fold into crinkles and Miles fights past the clawing panic, the voices inside him that tell him to fight or flee in the same breath that they tell him to settle and calm down, in an effort to assure her.

 

“Just tired,” he explains, looking away from her eyes for a moment because he just can’t bring himself to lie to her directly. He clears his throat and wills himself not to cry. Not here, not now. Not in front of his ma. She’s never seen him cry before, not since he was a baby, and Miles doesn’t want her to see the shell of himself he’s become. He’s so broken now, so flawed, and his mama doesn’t deserve to bear witness to him.

 

“That’s okay baby. How about I whip us up some pancakes?” Her eyes flick back and forth between his and again Miles chokes down the tears, swallows the burning lump in his throat. “They still your favorite?”

 

He nods his head, once and then again in quick succession and his ma lets another smile stretch across her face, her forehead smoothing out. She scratches lightly over his head once more, like she’s chasing the memory of tucking a curl behind his ear, and then settles her hand on his shoulder for a moment before turning and walking to the kitchen.

 

She calls back over her shoulder as she goes, telling him to relax and make himself at home. He hears her patter around, pulling down bowls and lighting the stove, but Miles stays standing in the entry way. He’s still wearing his boots, his jacket in his right hand and he moves to the hall closet to hang it up. His foot catches on a rug in the entryway, new and unfamiliar, and he finds a free hanger in the closet. He steps out of his boots and picks them up to set them beside the new rug, just off the corner.

 

 _Make yourself at home_ , his ma said. But he looks around at his childhood home, a place he should know more than anything else, and all he can think about is that new rug. There’s a new rug in the hall and ma has new wrinkles on her forehead and Miles is close to tears once again.

 

Miles isn’t sure he knows what home is anymore.

 

He and his ma eat at the kitchen table, the sun setting in the window by the sink and Miles can only choke down one maple syrup drenched pancake before his stomach threatens to bring it all back up. He smiles at his ma as she finishes her own dinner and then clears the table, sliding Miles’ plate into the fridge with the comment that he can always finish it later if he gets hungry again.

 

Miles pushes her aside of the sink, taking the sponge out of her hands and telling her he’ll take care of the dishes since she spent her time making dinner. His ma looks at him with narrowed eyes and then lets a laugh out.

 

“The military sure changed you, boy,” she says and Miles wants to flinch at the truth she can’t possibly know her words are, but God it’s been so long since he heard her laugh and the sheer joy that bubbles up in him from hearing it is so overwhelming that Miles can’t do anything but laugh back.

 

It’s the most he’s felt in months, a warmth in his stomach and Miles wishes he could enjoy it. But the laughter leaves a sick feeling in his throat, the constant guilt rushing back into his lungs and Miles turns away from his ma, back to the sink.

 

He turns the hot water on and lets it burn his hands, scrubbing sticky syrup off the plates and cleaning batter from the mixing bowl. The steam is a welcome humidity, finally some air in his lungs that he can recognize. He hears his ma walk around the upstairs and then return back down to the living room.

 

When he finally finishes, shirt wet from spilled dishwater, he finds her knitting in the loveseat by the radio. Miles considers for a moment sitting down on the chair across from her but he wants so badly to chase that warm feeling from earlier that he decides instead to shove himself into the space left next to ma in the couch. He sits ramrod straight for a moment and then his ma looks over at him, her glasses perched at the end of her nose, and reaches out a hand to brush the hair from his forehead again.

 

Miles lays down, tucking his knees up to his chest, and settles his head in his ma’s lap. He knows she won’t be able to get much knitting done this way but he also remembers from his childhood that she won’t mind in the slightest. She sets down the needles on the arm of the chair and brings one of her hands down to Miles’ head. She scratches into his hair and then over his ear, taking her pointer finger to trace the features of his face like she used to do when he laid down in the pew at church, eyes fluttering shut and shoes slipping on the polished wood.

 

He doesn’t fall asleep, knows there was no reason to hope he would in the first place, but it is the most peaceful he’s felt in years. It’s nearing ten by the time his ma decides it’s time for her to retreat to bed and she speaks softly to Miles.

 

“I already made up your bed, baby,” she says. “I spent the afternoon yesterday washing the sheets and pillowcases,”

 

Miles nods, her skirt shifting under his head, and makes himself get up. She turns out the lamp and they trek up the stairs after one another.

 

His room is just how he left it, full of his schoolbooks and his few records. The bed is neatly made, still sloppier than his commanding officer would have allowed, but Miles is thankful for corners that aren’t perfectly crisp. He pulls down the blanket and then strips to his underwear, so used to the heat that he wants to soak in as much cool air as he can. He opens his window and lets the breeze in, September wind tasting crisp and clean.

 

His bed is too soft. Miles knew it would be, after time spent on hard bunks and harder ground, and he also always knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight anyway.

 

Outside his closed door, his ma brushes her teeth in the bathroom and then goes to her own bedroom. The walls are thin in the house and Miles hears it when she starts talking.

 

He’s confused for a moment, ears straining to understand her muffled words through the walls, and then he remembers. It’s tradition from when he was a kid, forgotten after so many nights staying in unfamiliar places, and he closes his eyes against the darkness.

 

She’s saying her prayers. Miles can picture her, nightgown flowing over her shoulders as she kneels at the foot of her bed. He can’t hear exactly where she is in the list but he can picture her mouthing the syllables, asking the Lord to watch over her soul.

 

He knows he should do the same. He remembers all the words, is sure the muscle memory would keep him from tripping up, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

 

He hasn’t prayed since leaving Indiana.

 

Speaking with God would require admitting his sins, apologizing for all he’s done, and Miles isn’t ready for that. It’s a coward’s choice but Miles is so accustomed to the feeling of guilt now that it doesn’t hurt any more to add on yet another page of regret. The coward’s way out is more his style anyway.

 

One hundred and twenty three.

 

He hears his ma stand up, walking over the creaky floorboards and he pictures her leaning over to extinguish her lamp.

 

It’s so quiet. The open window lets in the sound of rustling tree leaves and distant dog barking, but there’s not much else for Miles to focus on other than his own thoughts.

 

He finally gets to sleep when the dawn is just beginning to break, the sky turning navy then purple then blue. The birds start singing and it’s almost enough noise for Miles to feel safe, sheltered from his past and his own thoughts.

 

He eats the leftover pancakes for breakfast the next morning when he finally can pull himself from bed and tries desperately to figure out how to assimilate.

 

They go to church on Sunday. His ma starches his collar and leaves a pair of newly ironed pants on the chair in his bedroom, waking him early in the morning and telling him to wash up. He wraps his tie around his neck mechanically, mind wandering to thoughts of dress uniforms and hears ringing in his ears. When he blinks and looks in the mirror he is reminded of when he shipped out to Vietnam.

 

He ruffles his hair, musses it up so it looks less formal, and loosens his tie more than is proper. He meets his own eyes in the mirror once again and flinches at the bags beneath them, bruised and sallow, and then his mama is yelling from the bottom of the stairs for him to get a move on.

 

The ladies from his ma’s church stare at him when they walk in the doors, Miles holding his mother’s arm politely. He avoids catching the eyes of the parishioners, all people he’s known since he was just a boy. He tries to shrink down into himself, tucking his chin against his chest and keeping his eyes downtrodden but his ma keeps getting stopped by friends who want to speak to Miles.

 

He fumbles through some lazy sentences about being able to serve his country, knowing better than to bring up anti-war sentiments lest the conservative men and women of his hometown disagree with him. He smiles, pulling his skin tight and biting his tongue between his teeth, and receives handshake after handshake. He’s waiting for someone to call him out, to deem him a baby killer like he’s heard of other soldiers getting called, but nothing comes. They all look so thankful, so earnest, so fucking proud. Miles swallows down the bile and wishes for the service to start so he can stop being the center of attention.

 

They pick a pew near the back, between a young couple and a family with a few small children. Miles picks up the hymnal and tries to bring the melodies to mind but he can’t quite remember how any of them go anymore. His mama hands him the program for him to look over and when he flips to the back page, there’s a memorial list of all the local boys who didn’t make it back from Vietnam. Miles feels sick looking at it, thinking of his own name printed in alphabetical order with all these boys.

 

One hundred and twenty three. Miles tastes blood.

 

The priest drones through the sermon and then requests a moment of silence for the troops overseas, _the boys who are coming home and the boys who aren’t_ , he says. Miles bows his head in a gesture of prayer but he can’t do it. The priest asks for God to grant healing over them, asks God to bless these boys who are laying their lives down for their country. He asks the congregation to lend their voices, to become a unified front of prayer.

 

Miles clenches his fists together at his side.

 

His mother is whispering next to him, nothing more than an exhale of breath through her murmuring lips and Miles squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to tuck his head down and bring his knees up but he can’t let himself cause a scene, not here. Not in front of all these people.

 

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth and the priest says something about the necessity of war, about spiritual warfare and the need for America to spread its message through the rest of the world and Miles wants to sob. He tries to compartmentalize, to get far away from here, but he goes too far and suddenly he can feel the wet air on his skin.  

 

He opens his eyes and sees sunlight and green trees and is at his feet before he can stop his own outburst. His ma looks up at him but he’s already stepping over the people in the pew next to him, walking down the side aisle and loudly pushing open the door at the back of the nave. Their whispered prayers sound like the moans and sighs of the dying.

 

The lobby is empty and Miles doesn’t even try to steady his breathing, not when there’s nobody around to witness anyway, just tries to suck in as much air as possible. He runs down the hall to the bathroom, banging the door open and stalking over to the sink. He turns the faucet on and splashes his face with cold water but his heart doesn’t stop beating fast, so loud he’s sure they can all hear it echo down the hall.

 

He skips the rest of the service and goes outside. There’s a park down the block from the church, deserted while everyone attends their own congregation and Miles sits down on a bench. His lungs pull in air and he itches, craving a cigarette. The breeze ruffles his hair from its slicked-down style and he loosens his tie all the way. He picks at his fingernails and waits until he can hear the bell signaling the end of the service before he walks back over to the church to take his ma home.

 

She looks at him questioningly but he shakes his head as minutely as he can. Her eyes are sad again and Miles knows he can’t stay here, not when every little thing he does causes her such pain. Not when the local people think him a hero, a brave soldier returned home, the perfect happy ending.

 

It’ll be better if he goes, he tells himself, packing his bags back up while his ma cooks dinner that night. He leaves his uniforms hanging in the closet but packs every other bit of clothing he owns, trying to get some distance between him and the fucking war. He goes downstairs when she calls for him and cleans his entire plate, savoring the last meal of hers he’ll eat for a long time.

 

 _I’ll come back when I’m better_ , he tells himself. _I’ll come back when God has forgiven me._

 

The coward’s way out beckons for him once again.

 

Monday morning Miles books a greyhound ticket across the United States. The pain in his ma’s eyes is tinged with relief and Miles waves at her from the front lawn before he walks down to the bus station, duffel thrown over his shoulder. She waves back but Miles has already turned his back to the house.

 

The clerk at the station asks him where he wants to go and Miles responds accordingly.

 

“As far away as I can get,”

 

The clerk furrows her eyebrows at him but rings him up for a ticket anyway, a bus that’ll be there to pick him up in twenty minutes. The ticket costs an arm and a leg but luckily Miles made a lot of money from his service and he vows to get a job as soon as he makes it wherever he’s going. He leaves the counter and picks a bench far away from the teller window, ready to wait it out.

 

Nevada is a two day non-stop bus journey. Miles steps down off the vehicle with his hand shielding his eyes from the sun. It’s hot, so much hotter than Indiana, and he already starts to regret his decision. He straightens his shoulders though, clenches his jaw, accepts his fate.

 

Vegas is for sinners.

 

He spends a week or so in the city itself, observing the gambling and the drinking and the sex. Women with red lipstick and men with greased back hair sit down at roulette tables and bet more than Miles had in his pocket even before he bought the bus ticket, winning some and losing more. He gets free drinks from the hostesses walking around and gets pleasantly drunk, his cheeks heating and his vision going just a little blurry around the edges.

 

Miles has never been particularly lucky. He’s tested the odds enough in his life so far, he has no interest in betting nor winning money at the tables. He watches a man with a black suit lose nearly one thousand dollars at the roulette table, all in on black. The man slams his hand down on the table, rattling glasses of drink and startling the man working the table. He screams something at the employee and security come running to drag him from the table and Miles is transported back to the jungle so quickly he almost loses his footing.

 

It’s the dirtiness of humanity that does it, the reminder that everyone has evil and badness inside them and Miles stumbles to a chair before his legs can give out beneath him. The shining lights of the casino become the beating sun and Miles retreats to the outside street before he can go any further. He thought he was safe here, where no one knew him and no one could possibly bring up his past, but the memories certainly don’t go away no matter how far he runs.

 

Vegas loses its luster quickly, a bright burst of light that fades like a shooting star and Miles hitches a ride to California to try his hand there.

 

He spends another week along the beach but the sunshine and the heat remind him of overseas. California isn’t nowhere near as humid as Vietnam was but still the sweat pools in the small of his back and drips over his face. It slithers into his eyes and the salt burns when Miles blinks his eyes closed, rubbing at them, and the spots in his vision are gunfire.

 

He lasts even less time in California, too overwhelmed by the abundance of culture. The hippies swarm, with their fringe jackets and long hair, and Miles keeps his head down to keep from interacting with them. _Babykiller_ , they call soldiers, _cowards_. He wonders if any of them know what it’s even like to take a life, if they would be so cavalier with their words if they knew what it was like to be a true killer. If they knew the weight of the job.

 

He hitch hikes back to Nevada and ends up along Lake Tahoe. The weather is just a tad milder there, trees blocking the sunshine and the water reflecting light in the late afternoon. He swims in the lake with a couple boys and a girl on holiday, smokes a cigarette with one of the boys while sitting on the hood of their station wagon.

 

“Where you headed after this?” the boy asks, ashing his cigarette into the grass. The others are in the water, splashing and screaming. Miles has his knees pulled up to his chest and he takes the smoke when it’s offered to him, inhaling deeply and then answering while the smoke still pours out of his mouth.

 

“Nowhere in particular,”

 

They offer him a ride back east when the week is over, telling him they can take him all the way to Oklahoma but Miles has grown too fond of the lake and the trees to leave so soon.

 

He runs out of money not soon after that and decides it’s time he find a real steady job. Lake Tahoe is nice after all, busy but not overrun and Miles likes the weather. He picks up a newspaper and circles the openings and finds himself at the front desk of the El Royale not even a week later.

 

They take him to a small room in the back of the building, stepping over the red line in the lobby and crossing into California. The manager, a man whose name was never actually told to Miles, sets down two stacks of paperwork for Miles to fill out.

 

“Need one for both states,” he explains as he hands Miles a fountain pen. As he writes down the little information he has, the manager talks him through the work, telling him the duties he’ll be expected to perform. He doesn’t ask Miles many questions, certainly doesn’t interview Miles in the way he expected to be. They talk about laundry and cooking and bartending. Miles tells the man he always helped ma with the laundering back home, tells him he can bake a mean pie but that’s about it, talks about mixing drinks with the boys during downtimes overseas.

 

The man smiles through it all, nodding here and there, making no notes on the piece of paper in front of him. Miles finishes the paperwork and the man shows him where to sign his name on the last pages and then they draw to a silence.

 

“What’s your story, kid?” the man asks him after a while, smoke from his cigarette drifting lazily towards the ceiling. Miles hasn’t smoked since that cigarette with the boy and his skin itches for a burst of nicotine. He breathes in deeply and shrugs.

 

“Don’t have much of anythin’ to tell you, sir,” Miles says. The manager squints his eyes at him, considering, and then leans back further in his chair. He blows smoke out and Miles breathes in deep through his nose and imagines he can feel the tingles of it radiating out to the tips of his fingers.

 

“That’s just fine, Mr. Miller,” he replies. Miles looks down to his hands, clasped in his lap, and picks at the skin around his thumbnail. His fingernails are short, bitten clean off whenever he gets just a tad nervous. He wonders if the man is asking him this for the sake of business or if it’s just small talk.

 

“You got family?” Miles jolts at that question, a bit of his nail skin tearing off too far. It starts to bleed but Miles resists the urge to bring it to his mouth and soothe the cut. He presses it into the material of his pants instead, then casts his eyes to the side. The lying gets easier every day but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t struggle occasionally, when it really matters.

 

“No sir,” Miles stutters out. His lower lip quivers as he inhales, he can feel it, and he forces himself to make eye contact with the manager.

 

The man is smiling at Miles, not friendly or bright but slow, steady. It spreads across his face but it doesn’t reach his eyes and Miles feels the first burst of real fear he’s felt in a long time, since he shipped off.

 

“Just fine, Mr. Miller,” he repeats and Miles feels the paranoia creeping up his spine but the job is a good gig and Miles needs the money desperately. He casts a fleeting thought to his mama in Indiana, vows to send her every bit of his wage that he can spare and hopes to God it’s enough to repay her for the bad he’s done. He signs the last bit of paperwork, both copies with their own state masthead, and then the boss is standing, coming around from his desk and clasping Miles’s shoulder in one hand.

 

The manager shakes Miles’ hand. His grip is tight, his other hand coming up to clasp the other side of Miles’ own and he’s still smiling that shark grin.

 

“Happy to have you join the team.”

 

Later, Miles dabs at the blood stain on his pants with peroxide and tries to place the look from the manager’s eyes. It reminds him of nothing more than straight evil.

 

They fit him for a uniform and Miles stands ramrod straight as a tailor measures his legs and his shoulders. The brown jacket makes him feel like a gentleman and a kid playing dress up at the same time, but they give him a name tag that declares him the desk manager and he feels proud for a fleeting moment. The tailor asks if he knows how to tie a tie and Miles does a perfect full Windsor with the dark red fabric.

 

The El Royale pays handsomely, nearly two dollars an hour while also offering him room and board. The guests are usually decent, dismissive more than they are rude, and Miles makes a pretty penny in tips from bringing luggage to their rooms and anticipating their drink orders with almost uncanny ability.

 

The perks of the job don’t quite manage to rose color the disadvantages.

 

The manager shows him the hallway on his third day at the job, once they’ve made it past the usual training procedures. He teaches Miles how to run the camera and how to turn on the sound to each of the rooms, positioning the video equipment so there’s no glare on the two-way mirror.

 

There’s a cabin out back, tucked into the woods and disguised as a maintenance shed, where the man teaches him how to develop the camera’s film. The red light in the dark room casts shadows over the manager’s face that make him look demonic and Miles swallows down his fear and tries to pay attention to the process. His hands shake when he reaches for the reel and he bites his tongue to try and stay grounded.

 

They pay him so much to keep silent and he sends it all to his mama through the mail, along with fake cheery letters about his travels. He tells her he’s found a good steady job and he tells her he loves her and his mouth is dry when he licks a stamp and sticks it to the envelope.

 

She writes back and wonders how he’s possibly doing so well when he sends her so much money. She begs him to keep some of it for himself and start a savings; tells him to not worry so much about her.

 

The money adds up. Miles doesn’t cross into Nevada often, his bartending skills not needed there, but when he does he stays far away from the betting tables. He keeps a lockbox under his bed where the money goes, his tips and cashed checks.

 

He keeps his head down and he works and he develops film in the cabin. He grows his hair longer and imagines he can feel his mama’s hand running through it and sometimes he goes days without sparing a single thought to Vietnam or the war.

 

Sometimes he gets bored.

 

None of the guests are ever particularly kind to him, not really, but sometimes they’re decent. One night Miles delivers towels to a couple staying in California and the man slips him a baggie as a tip. Miles slides it into his pocket without looking at it and doesn’t take it back out until he’s finished his nightly duties and retreated to his room/office.

 

It’s a bag of pot, not a lot but enough that Miles knows he could have some of it now and save the rest for later.

 

He’d tried marijuana once when in Vietnam but the hazy feeling settled too deep in his skin and made him paranoid. He sat in his bunk with the other men, passing around a joint, and every snap and groan from outside had him on edge. The wind whistling through the trees was the footsteps of the VC on their way to mow him down, the snores of the men further down in the tent were wild animals coming to take a bite, the sweat pouring off his forehead made his hands too sticky to get a grip on his rifle and Miles ended up rushing outside to throw up in the brush. He’d never partaken again since then, sticking to cigarettes and the occasional drink.

 

Now, he takes apart a cigarette and rolls the marijuana into it, creating a makeshift joint, and he smokes it alone in his bedroom. He overturns the picture of ma on his bedside table, so she can’t see, and he gets high.

 

It sinks into his bones differently now, melting the tension from his shoulders and turning the room into a haze of brown and blue. He smokes the entire thing in a few minutes and makes it maybe twenty more before passing out in bed. He wakes the next morning feeling more rested than he has in months, maybe years.

 

Dope isn’t hard to find, but it isn’t exactly conspicuous either. His room stinks of the skunky smoke that next day, the smell settled into his clothing and he has to do laundry early in the morning before everyone’s woken up. He worries about the guests picking up on it, worries about the managers finding out and firing him.

 

It’s a shitty job but Miles has had shittier and at least this one pays well. He’d really hate to be fired.

 

He experiments then, works his way through all the things he’d heard about but never had the balls to try. He hitches a ride to Reno and spends an evening on a street corner, trying to find someone willing to sell to a baby faced kid wearing a mustard colored cardigan.

 

He returns to the El Royale with a bag of contraband and assures himself that the hotel has seen worse crime.

 

He tries LSD once and vows to never again partake. The trip is bad and so incredibly painfully long, lasting over 12 hours and leaving Miles so completely exhausted he can barely lift his head from the hotel carpet he’d finally passed out on. He doesn’t remember what he saw, can’t fully recall the plot, but he knows it was an endless hell, time repeating over and over and the second hand on the clock ticking into infinity.

 

Cocaine keeps him up all night. It makes his heart beat fast, his eyes wide and his breath quicken. He sucks in air to his lungs and everything is in crystal clarity. The room is too small suddenly and he has to escape. He ends up in California, at the bar, cleaning the glass tumblers until his hands are raw from the bleach water. He does the housekeeping staff’s laundry, folding towels and pillowcases and then he showers and redresses and plants himself at the front desk to await the day’s check-ins.

 

The pills remind him of cocaine, make him confident and talkative but they come with the hallucinations of LSD. Miles hears voices that he can’t find the source of, imagines he can hear gunshots in the distance. Slamming car doors become bombs and flashing lights from the slot machines are the VC’s flashlights in the distance.

 

They by far have the worst comedown, too, leaving him so lethargic he can’t leave his bed. The blue feeling swallows him whole and he can do nothing but wallow in it, taking his first sick day in months. He flushes the rest of the pills down the toilet and tries to push past the emptiness to get back to work.

 

He settles on heroin almost by accident. He remembers the boys in his battalion getting into it overseas, shooting up and riding the wave well into the morning. He never wanted to try it then, too put off by the almost stupid blissed out looks on their faces. They looked inhuman, eyes shining and bodies limp and it scared him to see the men who essentially had his life in their hands on the battlefield look so exposed.

 

He hasn’t slept in nearing two days though, the nightmares causing him to jerk awake every half an hour, and the heaviness of needed sleep weighs him down. He tries smoking up, desperate enough to trek out to the film cabin to smoke a joint in the dark, only the red light illuminating the room, but it does nothing to help. He still blinks and sees smoking rubble and smells burning flesh when he breathes in.

 

The baggie has been sitting in his bedside table for months, given to him as another keep-quiet gift by a guest who had forced him to clean a terrifying amount of blood out of the bathtub. The man, a probable junkie himself from the way his hands shook as he pressed the baggie into Miles’ hands, begged him to keep quiet. Miles knew better than to ask where all the blood had come from.

 

He crushes the substance into a finer powder and uses a dollar bill to snort it up, just like the cocaine. It burns for a moment, making him choke just a bit, but then God the effects are quick.

 

It’s euphoric. His limbs go limp, full of sand and heavy, and the pleasure rolls over him in waves. His eyes roll back in his head and he bleeds over the edge of his bed, slumping onto the floor with his head pillowed on the side of his mattress.

 

It’s living death. It makes him content to sit and just nod off for hours, riding the highs and ignoring the world around. He just sits there for hours alone. He hasn’t been able to sit in silence in fucking years and the heroin shows him what peace can be again.

 

When he comes to, hours later, he rubs a hand over his face and still feels the phantom tingles. He tucks the remainder of the bag into his bedside table and goes to work, still sweating at the temple. He’s rejuvinated by the deep sleep but he feels spacey all day, his head struggling to get back into the rhythm of living.

 

It’s weaker and weaker every time.

 

He shoots up for the first time on a weekend, the night before management has informed him a very important guest will be staying with them. They want everything on this guy, want the whole shebang and Miles feels the weight of their pressure on his shoulders all day. The ugly humanity rears its head again and Miles needs the edge to be taken off, has to get a good night’s sleep or he’s gonna mess everything up tomorrow.

 

He loops a tourniquet with his uniform tie over his right arm, his knotting skills pulled straight from mandatory medical training at basic. He takes the cap off the needle with his teeth and pulls the plunger, pulling the liquid from a small glass jar. He shoots a little bit out the end, waste necessary to make sure there’s no air left in the needle, and then he takes it all at once.

 

He oversleeps the next morning, the shrill call of the front desk bell waking him. He curses, nearly knocking over his bedside table in his haste to get dressed. He tucks his shirt into his pants as he opens the door, apologizing to the sole man standing at the front desk.

 

He double takes and immediately the shame starts to swallow him whole.

 

“I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting sir,” he starts, cheeks heating, but the man just waves a hand at him and shrugs.

 

“Happens to the best of us,” he insists. Miles stutters an apology once more before slipping into his customer service tone and telling the man the whole script about the El Royale. The man smiles politely as Miles explains the amenities, doesn’t ask questions about the legalities of the differences between California and Nevada.

 

The man is kind through the rest of the transaction as well, booking room one at Miles’ polite insistence. It’s what management wanted, him in the honeymoon suite where Miles can set up the camera and get all the details.

 

“Thank you,” the man says as he takes his key and signs the ledger, leaning in to read Miles’ nametag, “Miles. You’ve been a great help,”

 

Miles arranges the camera in the window of the honeymoon suite and gets an eyeful. He understands now why management had wanted the man so badly.

 

 _“Happens to the best of us,”_ he’d said. _“Thank you, Miles,”_

 

He hides the film and tells management the man had done nothing all night but sleep. They insist on him sending them the tape anyway but Miles tells them there was something wrong with the camera and he only caught bits and pieces of the night. He cuts off the first few reels of footage and sends the safe parts to them, the man undressing for bed and the man waking up in the morning. He worries all week whether or not they’ll accept his lie but no other messages come to the hotel and Miles lapses back into his twisted version of normal.

 

The man dies a few weeks later and management move on to more important guests, calling a few nights a month to prepare Miles for his new customers. They send him fancy new video equipment, stuff they promise him won’t malfunction.

 

Miles dutifully sets up the new camera and learns how to use it and tries not to think about the film reel hidden in the maintenance closet.

 

The election of 1968 brings off-season. They lose their gambling license in Nevada, the permit expiring sometime during December and the state won’t let them renew. Miles’ manager is pissed, coming down to the hotel to talk angrily into the phone in the back room, but the state doesn’t budge. They pull the plug on the slot machines and cover the blackjack tables with cloths, and the customers stop coming.

 

Miles has too much time on his hands suddenly, no rooms to service or laundry to do. The hotel lay off the rest of the staff, canning the kind ladies from housekeeping and the men who cut the grass and clean the pool. The type of guests checking in now are poor people who can’t stay any closer to Reno and they have no need for Miles, no drinks to buy at the bar or assistance needed with the slot machines. Miles cleans rooms and checks in guests and gets really irresponsibly bored.

 

He passes the days getting high, chasing the sun and going further and further every time. It starts to get expensive, his scant tips disappearing quicker and quicker than before. He has to start cutting into the money meant for his ma and he apologizes profusely in his letters home, lies and tells her they’ve cut his pay during the off season.

 

He stops showering so often, goes weeks without looking at himself in the mirror out of fear of what he’d see. His arms feel weak, his elbows sore and covered in small pock marks, and his skin breaks out like it used to when he’d first joined the service. He loses his appetite and notices his uniform slipping off his body, his belt already notched on the smallest setting. He pokes another hole in it with a screwdriver from the maintenance kit and pulls it tighter around his hips.

 

He feels like he’s wasting away but the hotel is so mind-numbingly boring and sometimes the high is the only thing that keeps him from drowning himself in the leaf-filled pool.

 

He sends a letter to ma in April for her birthday and the postcard comes back to him, RETURN TO SENDER stamped on it in red ink. He opens it up and re-seals it in a different envelope and attaches a new stamp before sending it back with the mailman. That one returns eventually soon, the same red ink staring back at him.  

 

It takes another week before Miles receives a letter addressed to him. It’s from his uncle, his dad’s brother who he hasn’t seen since he was a baby, and it’s bad news.

 

Mama is dead.

 

His world goes red.

 

It’s worse than the jungle, worse than the window hallway at the El Royale, worse than the piles of bodies. It’s worse than one hundred and twenty three. It fills him up and threatens to choke him with thick hands around his throat, reaching down his mouth and into his stomach.

 

Miles curls in a ball on his bed, his back facing the room, and cries for what feels like forever. Every time he thinks he’s through, that he can’t possibly cry any harder or longer, a new wave of pain crashes over him and he shudders in a shaky inhale and screams his throat raw into his pillow. It’s just as white hot as he imagined it would be but God he never really thought it would be like _this_ . He’d give anything to be hollow and empty again if it meant he didn’t have to feel fucking _this_.

 

He lays in bed for two days, ignoring the shrill insistence of the bell at the front counter. He doesn’t move despite the shakes, the sweating that leaves his sheets damp and his hair stuck to his forehead. The withdrawal sets in quickly, after so long of using so often, and his body yearns for release but he can’t bring himself to do it. Not with ma’s picture there on the bedside table, watching him.

 

The manager comes for him on the third day, when Miles is wretching into the trash can next to his bed. The tears aren’t for mama anymore, they’re just plain habit, and Miles wipes at his leaking nose and eyes and tries to straighten. The cramps keep him kneeled over but he tries to keep his head as high as he can.

 

“You sick, kid?” the manager asks and Miles nods weakly, shivering. The man clucks his tongue, considering. Miles sneaks a look to his bedside table to make sure there’s no contraband sitting out and luckily the only suspicious item on his bedside table is his lighter, silver and engraved with his ma’s dad’s initials.

 

“Take another day,” the manager finally decides, “but you have company coming on Monday and I want you in shape by then,”

 

Miles nods once again, not trusting his voice, and the manager looks at him in pity for a moment longer before walking out and closing the door behind him.

 

Company could mean many things, could mean an important guest that will require Miles to set up the camera for. It could also mean Feds, who Miles knows all about by now. He knows how to spot one from a mile away, knows that as soon as he sees one he needs to let management know so they can take care of it. Company could mean many things but most of all it means that Miles needs to get his shit back together.

 

Thinking about work takes Miles’ mind off his bone numbing sorrow and it’s a welcome reprieve. He decides to make a list in his head of all the famous people he’s seen and met and what he thinks they’re doing now. Then he tries to anticipate who’s coming next, what they’re going to do, who they’re going to fuck in the honeymoon suite where they think no one will know about it. He tries to keep his mind off the pain but some things just can’t be forgotten. Miles knows that all too well.

 

He makes it until six pm on Sunday night before the withdrawal takes him. The shakes have subsided but the fever and muscle aches are overwhelming, begging him to give in and make them go away. He turns on his side in bed, hoping it to soothe the cramps in his abdomen, and eyes the picture of ma. The letter is still open next to it, condolences from his bastard father’s family, a request for Miles to return home so they can figure out how to divide up ma’s belongings.

 

Miles has always been a coward. He knows it, doesn’t deny the fact. Sniping is a coward’s job, spying is a coward’s job, shooting up is a coward’s job. They want him to venture all the way back home, to walk the halls of the house he grew up in and decide what stays with him and what goes, and instead Miles takes the coward’s way out.

 

The problem is that while he doesn’t _like_ his new life, it’s easy. It’s so incredibly simple to live, to do his work and then retreat to his maintenance closet to get high, and he’s not ready to go back yet. The real world is bloody and bright and the El Royale is never-changing, always predictable. He’s finally past the fear of war, the remembered panic, and is settling in to the plain old regret, the shame and guilt that he’s used to by now.

 

 _They need me here_ , he tells himself. _I belong at the El Royale._

 

He crumples the letter up and then lights it on fire in the ashtray. The flames lick up the sides of the paper and cast light on ma’s picture, reflected in Miles’ own eyes. He burns the letter and then turns ma’s picture onto its front so she can’t see what he’s about to do.

 

He hasn’t prayed since he left Indiana.

 

One hundred and twenty three.

 

Miles shoots up and the withdrawal goes away immediately. The whole world slides away until it’s just him and the high, just the way it’s supposed to be.

 

He rides the wave all night and sleeps late into the morning, just like the dope used to let him do before he got well and truly addicted. He wakes up to a banging on the maintenance closet door, probably the manager annoyed with him sleeping in after taking the whole weekend off. Miles dresses quickly, a deju vu feeling leading his hands to tuck his shirt into the back of his pants and slip his tie over his head. He’s still pulling his jacket on when he opens the door to the lobby and he sighs out an apology to the three guests milling around the desk.

 

Miles Miller gets back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> anyway ive been thinking a LOT about this movie hahaha and the need to know how miles got to the el royale just wouldn't leave me alone! unfortunately this fandom is literally just a bunch of chris hemsworth stans and mama needed some Good Food so i had to write it myself! 
> 
> lyrics at the beginning and title taken from "my mother's eyes" by frankie valli. 
> 
> if you want to drop by to talk about this movie or maybe leave a prompt in my inbox, my tumblr is @cryingbilldenbrough


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